


As Hope And Promise Fade

by urbanmagician



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, F/M, Genderswap, Other, Queer Het
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:43:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urbanmagician/pseuds/urbanmagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-movie. Hawkeye, who is haunted by nightmares of Loki, decides to unwind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Hope And Promise Fade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isabel_Adler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isabel_Adler/gifts).



> Proposed soundtrack: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBgEzopMwAY

“Are you _sure_ you’re alright?” They’d ask, eyes narrowing.  
“Maybe it’s time for a day off?”  
“You’re not yourself lately.”  
“You’re not yourself lately.”  
“You’re not yourself lately.”

He wasn’t. He slapped aftershave onto his cheeks a bit fiercer than was necessary, after the morning’s shave. His eyes weren’t hollow and dead, as he constantly dreaded to find them, merely bloodshot and encased in dark, puffy eye bags. He was getting plenty of sleep, but no rest whatsoever. Every night now, he’d go to bed, pass out, and then wake up with Loki beside him. When he’d wake up _again_ , he’d be surprised he’s still alive.

So, no, he guessed he wasn’t himself lately. The usual jokes seemed fake and stale on his tongue. But he did take a day off, mostly because going on like that would be placing his teammates in danger. Danger to himself he could very well live with. Or die trying. Hah-hah, man, you so witty. Not.

Being alone at home was unbearable, and being around teammates was even less so, so he decided it’s a good idea to head out to town. There was that pub there that he used to frequent once, and that had to be the reason for the car seeming to take him there all by itself. And he was in absolute agreement with the old girl - he could use a drink.

Or four, as it were. He noticed the point when the dizzy haze turned into hazy vertigo, and completely missed the point when daylight turned into night. He felt almost good again, and almost surprised at that. Could it be that easy? Drinking was not something he did often, but with plenty of dedication when he got to it. He smiled, remembering some of the silly, embarrassing shit he did at parties.

“You look like a man who successfully drowned his sorrows.” Said a smoky woman’s voice, from somewhere up close.

He started, trying to focus. Relaxing his notorious eyes felt wonderful sometimes, but he forgot he wasn’t at a party with friends or teammates. Pubs were made for drinking, but he was SHIELD, and of potential interest to many baddies, as he found out the hard way. This was not a safe place for him. Then again, even his fucking bed wasn’t anymore.  
The woman, who turned out to be occupying the seat beside him, looked at him with what looked suspiciously like friendly amusement. He wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t a pleasant sight as of late, even when sober, and now he was probably flushed, slow, and by all chances, slurring. Was he just not recognizing an acquaintance? Wait, she did look familiar. Tall, slender, white-skinned, dark-haired, somewhat angular features, pale eyes... 

He blinked. Oh no, that’s just him going crazy again. She couldn’t have possibly looked like Loki. 

Still, the resemblance seemed to rewire something in his system, because now he couldn’t stop staring, or growing a boner under the table. Oh fuck, and to think it was all going so well. He squirmed a little on the seat, and remembered he gave her no answer.

“We’re having a competition,” he said, “my sorrows and me. Wanna see who drowns first.” Then he grinned. Fuck my life, he thought, Clinton Francis Barton, even your jokes’ mothers have beards. And yes, you’re slurring. Why is this beautiful woman still sitting here? It really can’t be your manly appeal, she must be up to no good.

She leaned an elbow on the table, half-turning toward him. His eyes strayed to her cleavage, flatteringly framed by a green top. He forced them up again. She was smiling, and he could sense the smell of her hair, overpowering the smell of beer like a divine intervention. That mystery of women smelling so good, he really should ask Banner about that once. Sometime when Tony is present as well, for extra laughs.

“I see.” She said. “A death-match, then. Let me guess... is it about a woman?”

“That apparent, huh?” He said, even though that was a wild simplification of the matter. It sure sounded much more clear and mundane than ‘I’m avoiding the woman of my life, because I’m obsessed with a Norse god who kidnapped me, and I’m scared he might make me betray all I fight for with a poke of his magic rod. This probably sounds funnier in my head.’

“I’m sorry.” She had a charming, pouty smile. “Perhaps you could use... a distraction. What’s your name?” She twirled a dark curl on a long, manicured finger. 

“Clint.” He said, raising an eyebrow. “And not that I’m not flattered, but if you mean what I think you mean, then... couldn’t you seriously find anyone better?”

She looked around. Eloquently, with a tinge of exasperation.

He followed her gaze, and found the disapprovingly glaring barman, and one old man nursing a beer in the corner. Otherwise, the pub was empty. Was it really that late? Some suspicion flared at the back of his mind, but there were miles of dark, foggy forest between it and his consciousness, and he was afraid to let the little thing travel through there on its own. It was bound to get lost, and possibly, eaten.

“...Oh.” He said, blinking. “Well, then I’ll be happy to use a distraction.” He raised his eyebrows, which probably came out helluva sleazy, but hey, she should’ve known what she was going for.

She snorted, and got up. Somehow, it was a cute, graceful snort. The mysteries of women revisited, he thought, climbing out heavily.

He must’ve paid, though he really didn’t remember that. When he started paying attention again, he was back in his car, and the woman he picked up - or rather, who picked him up - was straddling him. His fingers were splayed on her bare thighs, under her skirt. Her fingers were unzipping his pants. ‘I’m no longer young enough to fuck in cars’, said his brain. ‘Sure you are’, said his cock. He went along with the second opinion, as he, unfortunately, usually did.

Her breath was hot and noisy against his ear, and it hitched deliciously when she slipped onto him. He moaned into her fragrant hair. She was tight and wet, moving on him, and her soft curves under his hands were so right, so unlike the hard, cold, angular Loki. Though no, she wasn’t entirely unlike him. Her long, white neck was glowing in the darkness, her pale eyes now stared right into his, as if she could see into his soul. Her thighs were locked hard over his hips. Her hands stroked up his chest and settled tightly on his neck. She snarled, rosy lips pulling back to expose pearly teeth.

‘You’re going to die in a parking lot with your pants open, strangled by a madwoman.’ Said his brain. ‘Then it’s probably Loki. And I don’t care either way, as long as I get to come first.’ Said his cock.

“F-fuck.” He breathed, throwing his head back, exposing his neck for her, opening up, like he did for him. His hands tightened on her hips, his whole body tensed as he tried to thrust up, impale more of that heat.

She gasped a strangled laugh, palms slipping up to cup his face, as she leaned closer. Their teeth clanged together as they kissed. He pulled her top up, exposing her breasts. The windshield behind her was covered with frost. No, wait, with fog. A street light glowed outside, like the flashlight of a reprimanding policeman.

She accidentally slammed the radio on as she flailed, trying to find a spot to lean on. Some whiny rock song blasted out. If he wasn’t so drunk, he’d come long ago. Since he was, he strained and arched underneath her, grunting, meeting her halfway as they fucked, locked in what turned into a bizarre acrobatic position, worthy of an urban driver’s kamasutra.

“There used to be a time, when I could hold my head up high.” Moped the singer on the radio, and Clint would’ve identified with his pain, if he wasn’t otherwise occupied at the moment, thank you very much - 

He came, seeing stars, groaning underneath her, collapsing into the seat like a wet rag. She followed, still gripping him, moving, milking all there was out of him while she licked the sweat off his neck, raked nails over his chest, whispered things in his ear. He panted, arms wrapped around her slender waist, shuddering, eyes rolling in their sockets. He wanted to say something, ask her name perhaps, he should remember to, after they’re properly done. This is all not like him, he loves Natasha, so what if Loki drives him crazy, is that a reason to run into the arms of some other woman? Even if she’s gorgeous and the sex was -

He woke up in his bed, covered in sweat, heart hammering in his chest. Did he ask her name? How did he drive home? Did he use a condom? When is this going to _end_?

He disentangled from the sheets, that did their best to thwart his progress, and shuffled to the bathroom. The usual, crumpled face stared back at him from the mirror. For a split second, the profile of a beautiful woman appeared, her lips close to his ear. And he remembered what she whispered to him:

“Oh, Archer, you’re so sweet in your hopelessness.”


End file.
